Fire and Night
by DancingCandlelight
Summary: The Phantom in his lair between 'All I Ask of You' and 'Masquerade'. A glimpse of anger, despair, scheming and composing Don Juan Triumphant. (Piece two of a trilogy of pieces, Mirror Lake, Fire and Night, and Black as Emptiness. These do not need to be read together, but are in a similar vein)


Red roses and white pages hit the dark water with a resounding splash. Tables he overturned, and candles jilted from their stands sizzled and extinguished in the lake. A small mirror was flung to the floor, scattering ragged shards of glass. Anger, hatred, red and fiery.

Another stack of pages into the lake. Sketches and songs. He watched them sink out of sight. Then he saw himself in the lake. Wild, red with anger, lip curled into almost a snarl. He kicked rocks across the reflection, then strode over to his organ. The music resting on the stand he tore in two, and threw across the cavern.

Then black despair washed over him. He slumped down into the organ seat, his head suddenly coming down upon the keys and producing a loud discordant sound. Soon the echoes of it died away into silence. The anger evaporated and tears slid down onto and between the keys. Christine did not love him. She had chosen another. She had seen behind his mask, seen his brokenness, as she had rejected him, as he had always known she would.

It would have hurt less had he not loved her so much. " Love?" whispered a voice in his head, "You don't even know what that means. How could you? You only know fear. Hatred. Cunning. Don't pretend you know what love is."

What was he feeling then? This pain?

" It is only rejection." The voice whispered. " You know it well don't you?"

He bit his lip until he tasted blood. The black emptiness was becoming too much. Something had to be done about it.

He grabbed a stack of manuscript paper resting on the edge of the organ. An ink bottle and pen rested on the high keys at the opposite end. He dipped the pen and held it in mid-air for a second. Then it began again, the feverish scrawling of notes. Every so often he would indent an organ key, then return to his papers, nearly burying his face in them. The pen flew, spitting ink but never blotting the pages. His hand was experienced in this. During writing, his face was a blank slate. In the past, he had smiled or even wept to his own composing, but now every once of emotion was being sucked into the pages, and he felt nothing. Faster and faster the pen scratched away.

Out of fifty pages written, he would only keep one. This he slipped into a leather cover, sitting under the organ seat, waiting to be bound later. The others he left resting on the keys. The leather cover had a title emblazoned in gold across it. Don Juan Triumphant. This score had been an ongoing project of his for longer than a decade, growing ever so slowly. Now he bounded through it. It became darker than it once had been, though it retained the same depth of melody: one to stir the soul. But he no longer enjoyed the writing of it.

After an hour the fever left him, and he slumped slowly down onto the keys again, his face resting on one arm, and breathing heavily. The silence hung thick around him. Then an image returned to his mind. A rooftop scene where the Vicomte de Chagny stood with Christine in his arms. He rose in a flash, and tossed another table across the cavern. Pages fluttered. The discarded pages of score were shredded. The cycle began again.

Anger, emptiness and sorrow, feverish composing. Fire and night. Blood and ink. Rage and despair.

So it continued. How long, he could not tell. There were no days beneath the opera house. He barely ate and seldom slept. Any sleep allowed him was filled with dark dreams, and whenever he awoke he remembered the rooftop scene. Christine loved another. Raoul de Chagny had stolen her affections. Did it not matter how much he, himself had done? The tiny sparkle of hope and light he once had was extinguished. Rage followed. Then loneliness and pain. As soon as the hurt became too much, he would throw himself into composing, until the rage took him again.

Then it came. The last note. The final pen stroke. In silence he bound his manuscript, then laid it on the music stand of his organ. For several minutes he only stared at it.

It was finished. The melodies and the orchestration, he knew, were brilliant. But what use was it? He would tear it in two to sing with Christine one more time. Then maybe, just maybe, she could remember him as her Angel of music, not as a monster.

But to bring about such an encounter would take some work, especially with the continued presence of the Vicomte.

A scrap of paper on the ground caught his eye. It was an invitation to a masked ball, the date set for in a couple months time. He could not recall collecting it.He knelt down to pick the paper up. A masquerade. The one day his appearance would not be out of place in the opera house. Could something be done, to fix his situation? Of course. The shadow of a scheme began to form. The first stage of it must take place at this masquerade.

He rose, and began pacing. What was the aim then? To win Christine's heart back. He shot a glance at his finished score, sitting upon the organ. Of course, that must have something to do with it. The Opera Populaire must perform it, and Christine would star in it. No one else was worthy of his music, but he would have to make do with the talent of the current cast. Which was not much to speak of. Somehow, he would sing with Christine, to his Don Juan Triumphant. Perhaps a few little edits were still needed to make it possible.

There was one main obstacle. Raoul de Chagny. The very name set his teeth on edge. His pacing increased in speed. Around the tables, and back towards the organ. A quiet, seething anger stirred up slowly inside him. He felt as if a red haze was creeping in at the edges of his vision.

There was the coil of rope on a hook in the wall. The red haze grew. Just as it had for Joseph Buquet. He took up the rope in one hand, feeling the rough fibres with his fingertips. Then he gripped it in a fist, till his knuckles turned white. He would find a way to change Christine's mind. Elaborate schemes were one of his many arts. And if that Raoul were to get in the way, well, it might be very dangerous to the young man's health.


End file.
